


Red-Handed

by williamastankova



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Will, Flirting, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Slow Build, Sort Of, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, he decides to have a little fun with it, will figures out hannibal loves him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: "The way you flirt is shameful.""And I pride myself in it nonetheless."aka, Will's finally picked up on how Hannibal feels, and they mutually decide to have a little fun with it without uttering a single word. Eventually, the situation heats up, and the ice breaks, only not quite how Will had planned...





	Red-Handed

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by a random generator found online, in a moment of boredom's decision to write a new hannigram piece. hope you enjoy!
> 
> note: the dialogue isn't actually featured lol sorry to disappoint, though I could make some additions later on

The first time, Will knows, is not the  _first time_. There's no doubt in his mind that the first time he picks up on it is at least the hundredth time Hannibal's done it, but the ninety-nine other times, he's been either too tired, too deluded, or too in denial to realise it. You see, Will, after God knows how long, has finally caught Hannibal Lecter red-handed, only now it's not for any sort of murder; it's a love crime.

Will thinks, then rethinks. He almost throws up in his mouth a couple of times, because every other way he says it seems so stupid, but that's exactly what it is. He sits alone with himself for a while, grateful he'd had the epiphany at home and not in the psychiatrist's office. He switches between laying down on his bed, to standing beside it, to wandering aimlessly around his little house which feels infinitely smaller, like the walls are closing in on him, because  _Jesus Christ_ , Hannibal is in love with him.

He sets out a plan in his head. He worries his lip, nervous, because he's always got a little voice at the back of his head telling him he's deluded, and he's misread everything. He's trying not to convince himself it's right as he writes down a little reminded in his notebook, in case he falls asleep and forgets it's real - that this has all happened. He'll be damned if he's going to wait another four years to recognise Hannibal's feelings towards him, especially now he's had time to mull it over, because yes, he likes it. He more than likes it, and he more than likes Hannibal. Granted, the psychotic, narcissistic maniac that he is, Will still more than likes him. There's another word buzzing around his head, but he pushes it away, swallows it down, and tells himself that should wait for now.

For now, he's writing. He's Will Graham, he's at home, he has no idea what time it is, but it's not important. He's writing down what he's going to do, and he smirks as he does so, because it's good. This is good. He's going to draw out the chase, only for as long as they can both handle it, because now's when it gets fun. The stage between the spotting and the pouncing is what Will always looks forward to, even if he tries to withdraw from anything long-term, because it helps him thrive. He's tingling all over, his hands are feeling numb, and he's even a little frightened, but it's all in good spirits.

He just can't wait to see which of them breaks first.

* * *

The next appointment he had scheduled with Hannibal was a fortnight after his realisation, but he knows that's not enough. He has to see him sooner, else his plan might fall through. He has to see him, because otherwise he might give up once and for all and move on, forget Will, because that's how the universe likes to treat these things. So, with these all in mind, he books himself in sooner - not the same day, because then Hannibal might know something's shifted, and that's the last thing he wants, at least for the time being. 

Two days later, he virtually runs to his appointment when the car gets caught up in some Baltimore traffic, and his whole body feels like searing ice as he knocks and awaits his invitation inside. 

Hannibal, sure as always, swings the door open, and Will sees he's clad in one of his usual suits. He amuses himself when he realises he doesn't actually ever think he's seen Hannibal wearing the same suit twice, and this one's new too: red, brighter than he'd usually be caught wearing, and with mauve stripes running down it. And, as always, Will doesn't think he'd ever pick it out of a store in a million years, but, as always, Hannibal pulls it off better than anybody could. He stops his eyes trailing languidly down Hannibal's body, and brings them up to his eyes.

Looking at him patiently, knowingly, Hannibal simply smirks, then nods. "Will, come on in."

Will tries not to read too much into the fact that, when Hannibal moves over to let him inside, he only moves so far that Will physically has to touch him - even if it's just a brief brush of his arm against his chest - as he slips past. Because he's not focusing on that, Will definitely feels calm and collected when Hannibal shuts the door silently and maneouvers with fantastic stealth behind him, and bends down to his ear, speaking in a lower tone than usual.

"Would you like some help?"

Will has to tilt his head to the side, increasing their proximity, before he sees what Hannibal's gesturing towards. He's offering to remove Will's coat for him, which is obviously the most normal thing in the world, and so it's only appropriate that he nod and let the doctor slip his garment off like it's something he's done a hundred times over. That's fine, natural, nothing unusual.

Hannibal, once he's finished stripping Will (or so it felt like, even if he's only one layer worse off), steps back over to the door and hangs the jacket on a peg, before he moves across the floor once more, this time stopping midway between their seats and the kitchen area.  
"A drink, perhaps?"

Will wants to say yes, but he doesn't. He decides against it, when he realises he might be drawn off-topic, and so he shakes his head firmly, and Hannibal takes that as an indication that he needn't drink either, if his company isn't. Will tries in vain to not marvel at how gentlemanly Hannibal always is, and he distantly wonders if he's like that for all of his patients, or if it's just for him. He prefers to think the latter.

He takes his time to cross the room, stopping momentarily before he sits to watch Hannibal, who he suddenly notices has been watching him the whole time. The doctor takes his seat across from Will, and there's a solitary moment in which neither of them speaks. Really, if Will's being a fair, unbiased judge, it doesn't feel like a therapy session at all.

"So, Will," Hannibal finally breaks the silence, and Will doesn't miss how he leans forward in his chair as he speaks, "What did you want to talk about?"

Will shrugs, suddenly feeling vulnerable, and breaks their eye contact to look at the arm of the chair - which, really, is fascinatingly ornate. "I thought therapy was about you asking me questions, prying me open."

Hannibal sounds somewhat darkly amused as he responds, "That is true. Only, this time is different: you told me it was urgent."

Well, that was something Will probably should have prepared for. Not a difficult question to anticipate, considering his fallback when asked why he needed to reschedule was that he'd had a terrible relapse of mind, and needed counselling as soon as Hannibal was free. Hey, in his own defense, it was a good plan to test the waters of how deeply Hannibal cared for him, and it had worked out in his favour. Well, almost.

"It was," Will favoured ambiguity in times like these, for he knew only lies had detail, "I had an awful night, I needed somebody to talk to. A voice to soothe, if you will."

"You should have come to my house," Hannibal's choice of words, albeit not overtly sexual, did make Will respond with perked ears, "I could have soothed you. You needn't think this is strictly a patient-doctor relationship, Will. You aren't officially on my records."

"No, you're right. I hadn't thought of that." Will made a point of looking Hannibal in the eye as he nodded along, "Though, surely, Doctor, people will start talking, what with me being here such a great deal of the time, and there being no records of any therapy going on."

"Whatever will we do?" Hannibal let the silence hang between them, before he continued, "Freddie Lounds has been running out of articles to write; perhaps we'll see ourselves on the headline of her latest one. Maybe we should give her something to write about."

Will couldn't quite tell it Hannibal was joking. His tone seemed to be verging on jest, yet not quite having breached the line. Will simply expressed amusement with a sharp exhale, returned his gaze to admiring the intricacy of Hannibal's suit, and waited to see if Hannibal would continue their line of conversation.

There was a minute in which the room felt like it was on fire. Will could feel that Hannibal's eyes didn't once move from him, and part of him loved it. He loved knowing that, for whatever reason, Hannibal couldn't stop looking at him. Hell, even if the next words out of his mouth were 'Will, your clothes look a mess', he'd have melted into the chair with adoration and unconditional gratitude. The room cooled, and Hannibal took in a breath, holding it for an extended beat, and then he spoke.

"How have you been sleeping, Will?"

And the moment was gone.  
Will couldn't say he was surprised: his plan was relatively long-term, and he'd have been shocked if Hannibal had given up the game so easily. His sadistic self wished that Hannibal now, sat in his freshly ironed suit across from him, was internally panicking, having a meltdown, because he hadn't ever expected Will to want him back. Of course, Will didn't want Hannibal to completely break down, but it'd be nice for him to feel something other than complete control over the conversation, and how the events that unfolded afterwards.

Will made a conscious effort to avoid any and all 'danger topics' in that session. This included anything to do with Freddie Lounds and her drama, how Hannibal looked, or how he smelled. Actually, Will couldn't really talk anything about Hannibal, because in some loophole fashion his mind would always end up back on the same train of thought. He kept his words relatively bland, while his mind ran wild with ideas, imagining anything and everything. He was almost driven mad by the scent of Hannibal's fine cologne - definitely something without a ship on the bottle - wafting over to him, but by the time his switch was just about to flip and he was more than prepared to clamber across anything that might come between them and sit himself upon Hannibal's lap, their hour was up and Hannibal was guiding him and his jacket out of his office, and bidding him a good night.

Looking at that proud smirk, Will considered kissing it off of him, but stopped himself. He'd been driven mad in his therapy session, which he knew was dreadfully ironic, but he had a threat of self-restraint left which kept whispering to him, and he agreed with it. After all, they had all the time in the world, and Will was only just getting started.

* * *

Will finds, sooner rather than later, that his attraction is rather thinly veiled, and his patience is next to non-existent. Contrary to the plan he'd had written down, he'd opted for a more direct route, and one that would likely drive Hannibal crazy much faster than the previous one: he was going to try to encourage more physical contact between them, to normalise such interactions, so Hannibal wouldn't feel it such a push to take the next step whenever he snapped.

It began subtly, at first. At his next appointment - the one previously scheduled, before his so-called 'emergency' - he made sure to run a hand along Hannibal's vest-clad chest. Just briefly, nothing drawn-out, but Will knew his action had been made note of when Hannibal looked like he might explode. He'd smirked to himself and, instead of taking his usual seat, he headed over to where he knew Hannibal kept his wine and glasses, and poured out two, one for each of them. At this, Hannibal gave a pointed look, but took the drink and ushered him to sit. Will did not miss the lingering hand on the base of his spine.

The next time, they were at a crime scene. Jack had invited Hannibal along as the medical-knowledge, and Hannibal would have thought it rude to decline such a kind offer to admire some corpses. As he did so, however, Will made it obvious that he was admiring somebody else - frankly somebody much prettier, much more angular, and much more _alive_ to look at - but, with Hannibal's attention fully on the bodies in question, Will didn't seem to get anywhere that time. The only person that noticed this particular shift was Beverly, who shot her eyebrows up at him but mentioned nothing. Will had figured she knew already, anyway.

The third time, it was Hannibal's turn to catch Will off-guard. Waking up to a sharp knock at his door never left Will in an especially delightful mood, which was why he was so gruff with Hannibal when he swung open the door and murmured, not really taking in who was there, "It's seven in the morning."

"The perfect time to wake to a warm breakfast and hot coffee," he gestured to a bag he was carrying with him, "May I come inside?"

Will, still trying to recover from both the surprise visit and being so active only two minutes after waking up, simply nodded, then moved aside, giving Hannibal enough room to get past, comfortably. He knew, with absolute certainty, that there was enough room, and yet when Hannibal stepped over the threshold and into Will's living room/bedroom, there was still the familiar brush of hand and stomach, though with the roles reversed this time. He shuddered, suddenly feeling overly exposed in only his t-shirt and shorts. 

"I thought we might be able to discuss Elizabeth," Hannibal explained, as he emptied the contents of his bag onto Will's dining table, "Quite an extraordinary case."

"And you couldn't have waited to speak until later? Midday, maybe." Will teased, though part of him wasn't really in on the joke.

"I should think not," Hannibal tidied away the now-empty bag, and met Will's eye with a bemused twinkle in his own, "These sorts of things hardly pick the best times to progress, so I figured what better time to talk about it than early in the morning? At least, Jack isn't about now to make any further discoveries."

"Boy, I hope not," Will let himself crack a smile, and his heart jumped when Hannibal's eyes followed the sudden movement. He took his seat, sorting out his plate and drink as Hannibal mirrored him, and only then could he look back up at Hannibal, who was eyeing him, looking as though he wanted him to dictate the conversation this time. 

He cleared his throat, put some food onto his fork, blinked once, twice, then held Hannibal's gaze as he brought the food to his mouth and said, before eating it, "We're only further propelling Freddie's blog, I hope you know."

Hannibal grinned evilly, nodded, then huskily agreed, "I know."

They took a moment to eat in silence, not looking at each other, focused only on their plates, and then Will took initiative again. "I must admit, I'm not one to talk about murder in the mornings, at least not when I'm eating. I'm terribly sorry to disappoint."

Having expected Hannibal to laugh at him, or at least acknowledge the level of humour to his words, Will found himself running out of breath when the reply that came was, "As I had anticipated, then. That's no problem; we'll talk about something else then."

Will looked at him, then blinked. He dared to lean forward in his chair, and felt light-headed when Hannibal followed suit just seconds after. Was this really happening? Surely not. They'd just been talking about a series of murders not even a moment ago, and now they were coming closer - oh, closer - and Will thought he could taste Hannibal already, even though he'd only just barely entered his personal bubble. He scanned Hannibal's face for any sort of resentment or disgust, and found nothing. He expected a little  _something_ , not the pure want he could see lurking behind the man's eyes. It was intoxicating, it was dreamlike, it was-

Knocking.  
From Will's door, once again, for the second time that morning, there was knocking. He privately wondered how the world woke up at such an ungodly hour, but the forlorn look on Hannibal's face send a pang through him that made him feel dreadful. Still, there was a knocking, and he'd have to answer it, even if only to make it shut up. God, did he want to return to how they'd just been.

Reluctantly, he pushed back his chair and stood up, making the short journey to the door, feeling the cold emptiness where Hannibal's eyes should have been, following his every movement. Will sighed before he opened the door, preparing himself to face some sort of door-to-door salesperson, or maybe a religious evangelist, but found neither. In their place, there was a woman. Petite, brunette, familiar.

"Will," Alana said, "I'm sorry to have to call so early, but you're going to want to see this."

"Alana," he hadn't meant to sound to juvenile, but the whine that worked its way out of his throat refused to present any other way. Even so, he lowered his voice a little, to save himself any embarrassment with Hannibal, "Could this wait until later? I'm a little occupied at the minute, with... breakfast."

"It's Elizabeth Shimford," she urged, and Will knew this couldn't possibly wait, "She's awake."

* * *

Okay, if it was honesty hour, Will might have wished the failed-murder victim had woken up from her coma at another time. It was a fantastic occurrence - a miracle, one might even say - that would, if nothing else, definitely aid in the FBI's race to catch the murderer before he struck again, and succeeded this time. This being said, the rush that it caused, with both himself and Hannibal busying themselves, trying to dress (in Will's case) and pack their things, meant that, by the time they would be alone again, Will knew the moment would be long over. Whatever might have happened that morning would be forgotten, and he'd be back to square one.

Given the new witness they had, it took what felt like eons to gather what they needed from Elizabeth. She, like others before her, had forgotten parts of the story, and so Chilton was consulted for his expertise in recollection of memories, but eventually Will was told to head home. Jack promised him that they'd let him know if any further progress was made, and so he did as instructed, there or there about.

He left the lab, yes. He left the building, yes. He got into his car, took his aspirin for good measure, then started his engine and began driving. At this point, however, he took a turn away from his own house, and began the familiar drive to Hannibal's. He had, after all, told him that he should come over whenever he liked (well, not strictly true, but Will had concluded after much debate that 'liked' and 'needed' were synonymous enough of the time). 

Hannibal's house was elegant, as was everything about the man. Will felt infinitesimal even just in his doorway, but he knocked and stood, using his pockets to protect his hands from the biting cold, waiting for Hannibal.

The doctor who never seemed to sleep wasted little to no time, and was soon at the door. He seemed to have to do a quick twice-over, to make sure he was really seeing who he was seeing stood on his doorstep, but when he knew it was no hallucination or poor facade, he smiled softly at him and spoke.  
"Will," he said, voice small yet still somehow with authority, "Come on in."

Will hadn't realised, before seeing Hannibal, to what extent he'd run his patience into the ground. He now could recognise that, when he'd originally made the plan to draw out Hannibal's want until he finally snapped, he'd been a little too expectant of himself. He seemed to think that he had an infinite supply of self-restraint and the ability to deny any and all human emotions. This, he'd come to learn the hard way, was far from the truth, and he feared that he was now the one to snap.

He let himself be guided by Hannibal into the living room, where Hannibal had apparently been sat before Will's interruption, given how the fire was burning still. Immediately, Will had to get rid of his restraints, because the room was too hot - far too hot - and he could already feel himself suffocating beneath the fabric of his clothing. Because of how he began shuffling the jacket off of his shoulders like a madman, he soon became entangled in his sleeves, and he knew he looked absolutely manic. The deeply concerned look on Hannibal's face let him knew he'd probably blown any chance he'd had of anything that night, and he felt the sudden urge to sink to the floor and never get back up.

"Will? Will," Hannibal's tone had changed, and he spoke how he did when he was concerned for Will's well-being, "Will, are you having an episode?"

"No, no no, no," he shook his head to punctuate his point, but flailed his arms at the same time and turned around, with his back to Hannibal, "I just- I can't get this off. It's so hot in here, can you help-?"

He knew he wasn't making sense - not really. Still, he saw over his shoulder that Hannibal nodded, and got to work. He first steadied Will's arms with a firm grip on his shoulders, and then took his time peeling the sleeves down each of his arms. When the jacket was off (which was sooner than anticipated, to Will's utmost humiliation), Hannibal chuckled and folded it, turning to put it down on the nearest arm of his sofa.

"Well, Will, I think you've helped me find my newest profession," he sounded amused, unsuspecting, "I should begin charging you to help you remove your coat. What do you think?"

When he looked back at his friend, he almost jumped out of his skin. Will had turned back to look at him, no longer fussing with his arms restrained behind his back, and didn't look as though he was going to say anything. He only stared, looking darkly at Hannibal, like he wanted to devour him, like he'd been overtaken by some manic disease or plague, and Hannibal considered suggesting he get some rest. Only, all words he tried crashed and burned, because Will had seized his mouth, and - oh, Lord - they were kissing.

When he realised what he'd done, Will nearly blacked out. He'd given in, he'd made the first move, he'd kissed Hannibal, and now they were kissing - kissing, with the roaring fire cheering for them in an otherwise silent room - only his light-headedness minorly made him want to throw up. Deciding he'd rather die than stop kissing Hannibal, he pressed their chests together and, using his full weight, directed the other man to start walking backwards, back towards the couch.

Perhaps Will should have felt bad when Hannibal went flying, undoubtedly due to his choice, falling back, only saved by the grace of the positioning of his furniture. Then again, the new position enabled Will to stoop, still on his feet but bent over, kissing Hannibal still with all his might, and gave him a much better vantage point to wordlessly instruct Hannibal on what he wanted him to do. Actually, the more he considered it, it could have been easier to tell him the few things he _wouldn't_ do, but his mind was made, and so he picked up Hannibal's limp hands from his sides and tugged them to his chest.

Hannibal, clearly having the wrong signal, pressed one hand to his pectoral and gently rested the other in the dip of his neck. When he opened his eyes, Will saw Hannibal looking up at him, looking relaxed but with furrowed brows, clearly unsure of what he was wanted - needed? - for. Will didn't mind the new position, as he keened into the touch, but still took the opportunity to explain in a breathy manner what he was seeking.

"Unbutton my shirt," he explained, then chuckled to himself as he added, "I'll pay you for that too; your business is growing."

Hannibal grinned, looking up at him still, as he moved both hands to slowly undo his top button. Will thought dismally that, if he continued to move at such an agonisingly lethargic pace, he might just drop then and there. Then again, he could hardly argue, because death by drawn-out stripping by Hannibal Lecter sounded like a pretty heavenly death to him, albeit disappointing to think of what he might miss.

When Hannibal finally had his shirt undone, he pushed it over his shoulders, and once the material lay, discarded on the floor, only then was Will pulled back in, granted permission to kiss him once again. Feeling content with the layers he had on, Will guided himself with hands on Hannibal's shoulders to straddle the doctor's lap, feeling only slightly emasculated by the mewling sound ripped from his throat when Hannibal's hands cupped his behind and tugged him in closer, pressing even more of them closer together. He even felt Hannibal smirk into the kiss, but he couldn't blame him. Not one single bit.

Another sound threatened to crawl its way past his lips when Hannibal stopped kissing him, but he spoke in a satisfyingly broken voice that subdued it.   
"How are you going to pay me for my services?"

This was it. Will had been waiting to hear Hannibal like this the whole time. He'd ached to hear how Hannibal sounded when he wanted him so badly, and now he'd gotten what he wanted, it was more than he'd ever imagined. He felt like an excited child on Christmas morning who'd gotten an entire pile beneath the tree to himself, only he was forty and not sat on Santa's lap, but rather Hannibal's. Oh, and he was turned on to a level he'd never been before.

He didn't trust himself to speak. He couldn't, he knew, or else he might sound silly and ruin the mood. He might say the wrong thing, too, which would be equally as dreadful, if not even worse. So, in response to Hannibal's question, he grinned evilly and dove into the man's neck, peppering quick kisses there, licking and biting, enjoying himself in the nook, and shivering when Hannibal raked his fingernails up his spine in eager response. He felt him solidify, body going firm beneath him, and then suddenly he was being hoisted into the air, and there were hands underneath his legs, keeping him firmly upright. 

"Where are we going?" He whispered huskily into Hannibal's neck.

The doctor, not stopping in his beeline out of the room and into the hallway, responded, his own voice hoarse and oozing promiscuity, "I think you already know the answer to that question, Will."

And he did. Oh, he did.

 

 

 


End file.
